


I Will Follow You Into the Dark

by OceannanotOceania



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:12:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceannanotOceania/pseuds/OceannanotOceania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Love of mine, some day you will die</i>
  <br/><i>But I'll be close behind</i>
  <br/><i>I'll follow you into the dark</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Follow You Into the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> While I don't think this would count as a songfic, this does draw a lot of inspiration from the song I Will Follow You Into the Dark by Death Cab for Cutie.

It all had happened so fast. Sherlock’s body was carted away from John before he could take a pulse, make any form of confirmation that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock was still alive. He had been held back the whole time, futilely resisting the various staff that had suddenly appeared. Within a few hours, Sherlock’s body had landed in the morgue, Mycroft coming to confirm the obvious identity of the victim. John had been forbidden from going anywhere near the morgue, and instead sat, head in his hands, in a waiting room just down the hallway. Mycroft suddenly appeared, face in its naturally stoic expression. John looked up at Mycroft.

Mycroft frowned in sympathy. “I’m sorry, John. Sherlock was likely dead by the time you got to him.”

John nodded. “Yeah, I figured. I can’t help but hold out the hope that he could have been alive somehow.” Mycroft’s expression flickered, John oblivious to it.

He nodded. “Do not worry about funeral plans, for I have already begun the arrangements for it..” He paused, fiddling with his umbrella. “As for the flat, I hope you will continue to stay, if only for a brief amount of time. I will likely send someone to pick up Sherlock’s various equipment and files within the week.”

“Yeah, that would, that would be good.” John nodded his head.

“Right,” Mycroft replied. He pulled out his phone, rolling his eyes. “Unfortunately, I cannot continue to chat much longer.” He turned towards the door, suddenly turning back to John. “Ah, yes. The funeral will likely be in three to four weeks. Goodbye, John.”

John began to utter a “No,” upon hearing the words he had heard from Sherlock just a few hours ago, then nodded in reply, placing his head in his hands again.

\---

**4 weeks after Sherlock’s death**

 

It was somewhat disappointing to John how few people had shown up at Sherlock’s funeral. Sure, Sherlock hadn’t exactly had many friends in life, but couldn’t there have been more people who cared for him? The only people besides him were Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and an older woman who was supposedly Sherlock’s “mummy”. Mycroft had made an appearance, doing a brief eulogy and leaving due to “confidential issues” before Sherlock’s burial. Molly, clad in a knee-length black dress, had her face obscured by a tissue most of the time, silently crying. Lestrade had been relatively stoic, although John had noticed him shed a tear or two upon seeing Sherlock’s body lowered into the freshly dug grave.

After the burial, the older woman, whose hair was greyish with patches of white, and was clad in a black dress and a black shrug, walked over to John.

“You were Sherlock’s flatmate, yes?” The woman asked.

“Uh, yes.” John said.

“Ah, good,” She said. “I’m Sherlock’s mother, but you may call me Violet, if you so choose.”

“Ah,” John replied, shaking his hands with her.

“Mycroft has made a few references to you in his letters to me,” Violet said. “I eventually found your blog, by the way. I imagine Sherlock wasn’t too pleased with having that at first?”

“Naturally,” John replied, a sad smile flashing across his face. “Course, he always was a bit of a prat about that sort of thing. Too afraid it ‘romanticized his work’.”

Violet smiled. “Ah, my dear Sherlock. He was always somewhat protective of his work, even as a young boy.” She paused. “You know, I do believe you were the closest Sherlock got to an intimate relationship with another human being.”

John felt a blush rise on his face. “I-I’m sorry?”  
“Oh no, I don’t mean anything like that. Sherlock never was the type for any sort of sexual relationship. I just mean that you seemed to be the closest he’s ever gotten to a true friend.”

John’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry dear, I’ve gotten you all depressed now, haven’t I?” She glanced down at a small, silver wristwatch. “Oh, I really should be heading home soon. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Watson.”  
“It was nice to meet you too.” John mumbled as Violet walked away.

John looked around the cemetery, noticing he was on his own. He walked up to Sherlock’s tombstone, placing a hand on it. For a while he stood in silence, millions of thoughts flooding his mind.

_Why did you leave me alone? Was there anything I could have done to save you? Were those last words I said to you what pushed you over the edge?_

John’s mind lingered on that last thought. It still hurt him to think of the last words John said to Sherlock in person.

_You machine._

God. What if that _had_ pushed him to the edge? If he hadn’t been so arrogant back then, perhaps... No. No. John shook his head. There was nothing he could have done to stop Sherlock. It wasn’t his fault, it can’t have just been his fault. What about Sally, Anderson, all of the other people who saw him as a fraud, a freak, both? They had to have had a greater impact on him.

John replaced the hand back to his side. He had to leave now, before the regret and sorrow began to truly drown him and leave him paralyzed. He nodded at Sherlock’s tombstone, turning on a heel before walking out of the cemetery.

\---

It had been about three months since the fall. John hadn’t spent much time outside of 221B, save for coming to and from work at A&E. He had taken up using the cane whenever he walked anywhere. Initially, John couldn’t help but think of his first meeting with Sherlock, how he had deduced that the limp was simply psychosomatic, how it had disappeared within the first few days of meeting him. Of course, John suppressed most of those memories after a few months. It was almost always too painful to think of his time with Sherlock, because it ultimately led him to think of Sherlock’s bloodied corpse in front of him; of how his last words had been over his mobile, trying to convince Sherlock to not jump.

John sat in his normal chair, staring at the empty chair across from him. Mrs. Hudson had considered getting rid of Sherlock’s old chair, but John was able to convince Mrs. Hudson to keep it in the event that they had visitors over. After he said that, Mrs. Hudson simply flashed a small, sad smile before nodding her head and leaving the topic alone.

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the edge of the open door in the living room. John shook his head, looking back towards Mrs. Hudson as she walked into the room. She was carrying a tray that held a tea set and a plate with some scones. John flashed a small smile.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, you didn’t need to do this.”

“I just wanted to, dear, I haven’t seen you eat too much since the funeral.” She paused, pouring John a cuppa. “How are you feeling, by the way?”

“How do you think I’d feel?” John replied. “It’s still a bit of a shock to me. Sometimes, I can’t help but think that Sherlock has insisted that he went off on a case on his own, and will come running into the flat in the next day or so. Of course, I know that won’t happen ever again.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded her head, frowning slightly. “I sometimes think I’ll hear him up at two in the morning, grating away on his violin, or finding another one of his specimens in the fridge.”

John faintly laughed, the small smile on his face soon replaced by a frown. “God, all of his little quirks in life were annoying, but now I can’t help but miss that sort of thing.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded her head. “I know I’ve said that I’m not your housekeeper, but if you need help anything, I hope you know that I’ll be here.”

John smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. Want me to pour you a cuppa?”

“I appreciate the offer dear, but I’m good for now.” Mrs. Hudson paused, coming over to John and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, I don’t think so.” John replied.

“Alright then, dear.” Mrs. Hudson squeezed John’s shoulder before walking downstairs.

John sighed, grabbing the cup of tea Mrs. Hudson had poured, and adding a small amount of cream before taking a sip. John almost dropped his cup when his mobile suddenly began to ring.

"...Hello?" John replied.

"John,"

"Oh, Greg, I wasn't expecting you to call."

"What else was I supposed to do, I haven't heard or seen from you since the funeral."

"Yeah, sorry about that," John replied. "My mind hasn't been in the best of places recently."

"I figured as much, which is why you need to go out to the pub with me."

"Greg, I don't know if I'm exactly up for that sort of thing-"

"Doesn't matter what you think, I know it'll do you some good." Lestrade replied bluntly. "You can do whatever you need to do. Bitch about Sherlock, cry into my shoulder-"

"Greg, I didn't even cry at the funeral, what makes you think I'll cry in front of you?"

"You'd be amazed at what I can get people to after more than a few pints."

"Prat." John replied.

"As always," John could picture Lestrade's cheeky little grin. "So, you wanna meet up around six, then?"

“Yeah, alright.”

“Great, see you then.”

~

John arrived about five minutes before six, glancing around the pub, already fairly filled with people. He couldn't help but think that perhaps this was a bad idea, that he would end up pissing off Greg. John sighed, taking another sip from his pint.

"I see you started without me." Lestrade smirked. John turned to his right side, raising an eyebrow. Lestrade lifted his hand, signalling to the bartender to bring out another pint.

"What can I say? You dragged me out here, might as well enjoy it."

Lestrade smirked, nodding to the bartender before taking a sip of his pint. “So, how have you been?”

John raised an eyebrow, taking another swig of his pint. “How do you think?”

“Just trying to start a conversation, geez.”

“I know, Greg, sorry,” John paused, glancing down at his almost empty pint. “This has just been a hard time for me. How’s work?”

“Oh, God, it’s been hell.” Lestrade replied, taking a swig of his pint. “Sally decided to move to somewhere in America, so we’re short a Sergeant, and only recently was I able to convince the head of my department that I should remain a Detective Inspector, and without Sherlock, the cases just pile up...” Lestrade shook his head, looking over to John. “Right. This isn’t supposed to be about me, though, this is about you.”

“Greg, I’m fine-”

“Fine? You do not look ‘fine’ to me,” Lestrade said bluntly. “I know that you’re not necessarily the type to go on about your feelings, but I think you can do that just this once. I won’t view it as emasculating, and I won’t judge you based on what you say.”

John sighed, gulping the rest of his pint, and waving to the bartender to get him another. His hands paused on the new pint, gripping the edge of the glass. “I mean, what can I say? I lost one of my closest friends. I feel a mixture of shock, anger, sadness. Sometimes, I think that he’ll suddenly show up on the doorstep to our flat, explaining that he’s been off on a case without me.” He paused again, taking a swig of his pint. “I feel like I’ve lost my purpose in life. You didn’t know me before I met Sherlock, but, God, you would have hated me back then. After I got shot, I became a shell of myself. I didn’t do anything, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to afford my old flat on an army pension, this whole ordeal with Harry... Just, my life was a mess back then, and I just hated it. But then, Sherlock Holmes came into my life. Yes, he was strange, yes, he always some experiment going on in the kitchen, and yes, sometimes he was the biggest prat on this planet-” Lestrade snorted, taking another sip of his pint. “But, he gave my life meaning. He gave my life the adrenaline that I lived off of in my army days. Without him, it feels like I don’t have anything left to live for.”

Lestrade looked over to John, noticing the hint of sadness that lay behind John’s stoic expression.

“You know, sometimes I can’t help but think the same thing.”

“Hm?”

“I mean, Sherlock didn’t have as much of an impact on my life as he did on yours, but that doesn’t matter. He helped out on a lot of cases, and without him a lot of criminals would have gone free, or there would be more innocents in prison.” Lestrade paused. “I know that most people viewed him as this cold-hearted, inhuman thing, but even I could see that that was just a façade. He never liked to show it, but sometimes, I could see how much he was impacted by whether or not he saved a life. Sure, maybe he solved all these cases because he enjoyed solving the puzzles, the thrill of the chase, but it wasn’t just that. I think Sherlock was glad to save a person’s life.”

John simply nodded in response, idly sipping at his pint. The two sat in silence for a while, sipping at their pints, occasionally glancing up at the football match on the bar’s television. After going through two or three more pints, John sighed. Lestrade raised an eyebrow, looking over to John.

“You know, there were so many things that I had left unsaid to Sherlock.”

“Like?”

“Like, I wish I had told him that I...” John shook his head.

“That you...?”

“Nevermind, just, forget it.” John took another swig from his pint.

“No, you can tell me, John. Like I said, I’m not gonna judge you.”

“I don’t need anyone else to hear this. Hell, I don’t _want_ anyone else to hear this.”

“Well, if you won’t talk to me about anything, couldn’t you at least talk to your therapist or something?”

John rose an eyebrow. “Greg, she wasn’t much help to me after I got shot, what makes you think she’ll make this any better?”

“I don’t know, because she might know how to pry better?” Lestrade replied. “Because you don’t seem to want to talk to me about this much?”

John sighed. “...Alright. I guess I’ll schedule an appointment with her. I can’t guarantee that it’ll help me any, but I’ll do it anyways.”

Lestrade smirked, hesitantly patting John’s back. “Good. So, I know that Sherlock’s not here anymore, but, I’d appreciate it if you could ever help out on any cases.”

“That is definitely more Sherlock’s area, but, I might consider it.”

“Good.” Lestrade nodded his head. “I guess I’m sorry for dragging you out here.”

“No, Greg, it’s fine,” John replied. “I think it was kind of nice to get out of the flat for a bit. Think it was becoming a bit suffocating for me.”

Lestrade smirked. “Well, if you ever feel like you’re being suffocated again, feel free to call me up and we can have a pint or something.”

John nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

\---

**4 months after Sherlock’s death**

 

John sat in a chair across from his therapist, Ella, who looked at him with the false concern of therapists.For a few minutes, John sat in silence, avoiding Ella’s gaze.

After some prodding from Ella, John croaked out, “My best friend, Sherlock Holmes,” He sniffed, shaking his head, knowing he had to say this, “Is dead.”

He turned away for a moment, avoiding the impulse to burst into tears. Ella looked at him with that same blank face, some genuine concern on her face.

“How long since you visited his grave?” Ella asked.

John looked back at Ella. “Not since the burial.” He sniffed. “Too many memories.”

Ella glanced at the cane that leaned against John’s leg. “Perhaps it would do you some good.”

John nodded. “Yeah, maybe.”

He wondered why he was here. She never had been much help after he was discharged, why would she be of any help now? He glanced at the clock in the back of the room. Another half hour. How wonderful. John continued to sit in silence, mind wandering to the idea of visiting Sherlock’s grave. Maybe it would be helpful. Or, maybe it would bring him all sorts of undue pain.

John glanced at the clock again. Twenty-eight minutes.

\---

**5 months after Sherlock’s death**

 

John stood in front of Sherlock's grave, leaning on his cane. He had made a bit of a ritual out of visiting the grave, always coming every weekend, always just before dusk, an hour or two before the cemetery would close.

John sighed, fiddling with the handle of the cane.

"Life has been a living hell for me." John mumbled. "I'm sure you know that, though. Deducing me even in death, yeah?"

He paused, sighing again. "Sometimes, I wonder if it'd be better if I died, too. Because, honestly, my life has lost its purpose with you gone." He glanced down at the ground. "I can't even get a girl to go out with me after the first date. They all say the same thing, how I talk about you too much, how I'm still in love with you. And honestly,” He nodded his head slowly. “I think I’m starting to believe them. I know that, when you were alive, I constantly denied the fact that we were a couple, and that I was in love with you, but, maybe...” He paused. “Maybe I did, love you. Hell, maybe you did too, and that was why you never commented whenever people viewed us as a couple.”

“All I know for sure now is that I would do anything to be with you right now. Whether it meant finding a way to bring you back from the dead,” John fiddled with his cane. “Or killing myself.”

A deafening silence surrounded the cemetery. The breeze faintly rustling the leaves had disappeared. There were no other sounds of mourning drifting through the cemetery. John nodded his head slowly, mumbling a brief, “So, yeah.” before lifting his hand to touch the top of Sherlock’s tombstone.

\---

**6 months after Sherlock’s death**

 

The Browning sat on the table in front of John, muzzle pointed toward him. John had done the same thing for the past week. He would pull out the gun from a drawer, sit it on the table, then sit in silence, occasionally glancing at it. Always, he would promise that this was the night that he would commit suicide. But, when the moment finally felt right, he couldn’t do it. If he picked up the gun, his hand would shake too much to actually let him hold it.

Somehow, tonight was different. Something about tonight seemed like the night. It was around midnight, so Mrs. Hudson was likely already asleep. John had grabbed a white towel, which sat on the ground in front of him. He knelt down on the towel, grabbing the Browning off the table.

_Well,_ John thought. _This is it._

The tremors had disappeared from his hand. John couldn’t help but think of something Mycroft had said when they first met.

_You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr Watson. You miss it._

John pointed the muzzle to his face, just barely entering his lips.

_Will I see you, Sherlock? Once I’m dead, will you be there waiting for me, immediately deducing how I had died, how long I had waited before I offed myself?_

John gulped.

_Will you be angry? Will you be angry for how I treated you before you jumped off that blasted roof? Will you be angered that I couldn’t wait to see you again? Or will you be happy that I came for you?_

Slowly, John pulled the trigger. A loud _bang_ filled his ears. He briefly felt the bullet go through his head, the slight kick the Browning had, before falling to the floor, just missing the towel. So much for laying that out.

John lay on the ground, seeing the pool of blood form around his head in his peripheral vision. He swore he heard Mrs. Hudson or someone from downstairs banging about, rushing upstairs to see what happened. He knew they’d probably be too late, though. That even if they could get him to a hospital, he wouldn’t be alive for very long. And, honestly, that made him happy.

The edges of John’s vision began to fade to black. He smiled.

_Soon, Sherlock, soon. I’ll be joining you soon._

Eventually, John gave in to the desperate desire to close his eyes.

\---

**A few hours after John’s death**

 

Sherlock was in Dublin when he’d gotten the call from Mycroft. He gulped upon hearing the news.

“You are sure that he did it?” Sherlock asked, voice as neutral as usual. “You’re sure Moran or someone didn’t just plant a gun by him?”

“The gun was John’s, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied cooly. “I’m sorry, dear brother. It was a suicide.”

“I doubt your men’s competency, I’m coming down myself.”

“Sherlock, you’re still in the middle of a case-”

“I don’t care about this blasted case!” Sherlock exclaimed. He sighed, regaining his composure. “Besides, I can likely wrap it up in the next day or so.”

Mycroft sighed. “I will arrange for plane tickets for tomorrow. They will be under the name Victor Hammonds.”

“Understood.” Sherlock mumbled. “Goodbye, dear brother.”  
“Goodbye, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied. “And Sherlock? Do avoid doing anything rash. I don’t need your real corpse on my hands.”

“Have you no trust in me, dear brother?” Sherlock pictured Mycroft’s quiet groan. “I want to see John’s corpse for my own eyes when I’m in London. Ideally at St. Bart’s, any other hospital isn’t nearly as competent.”

“Understood.” Mycroft said. “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded before hanging up. He threw his phone onto the ground, crawling into bed. He balled up into his default position, hands steepled beneath his chin.

_Would John really do it?_ He had never shown any signs previously of wanting to commit suicide. Not even any desire of self-harm. It always had been more of an obvious numbness. An obvious want for adventure. But never suicide. Sherlock sighed, placing his head in his hands.

\---

**One day after John’s death**

 

Sherlock walked into the mortuary at St. Bart’s, glancing around the room until he found a pathologist.

“Ah, Molly,” Sherlock mumbled, walking over to Molly.

Molly turned. “Oh! Sherlock! I didn’t think you’d be back in London so soon, I thought you were still traveling the world-”

“I was,” Sherlock said. “I imagine you know why I came back here so quickly.”

Molly’s face fell. “John.”

Sherlock nodded his head.

“I-I just finished the paperwork for him, I’ll pull out his body, just give me a moment.”

Molly walked over to where the corpses were stored, checking the labels before opening the drawer which contained John’s body. She sighed, placing the body bag on one of the silver slabs.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Molly mumbled before zipping open the body bag.

Seeing John’s cold corpse in the morgue brought on a wave of various emotions, an amalgam of anger, sorrow, shock, all emotions that he had either never truly experienced, or had thought he had deleted. He shook his head, trying to suppress them as he looked closer at John’s corpse.

John’s hair had turned more grey in the time they had been apart, even if it had only been a brief five months. The bags under John’s eyes had darkened (lack of sleep, no surprise), the wrinkles around his mouth had deepened as well. Sherlock noticed the gunpowder residue around John’s mouth, and frowned. Perhaps Mycroft had been right.

He turned John’s corpse onto its side. Some flecks of blood remained around the gaping hole where the bullet had traveled through. Sherlock frowned. It would be hard for a killer to imitate the angle of the bullet’s trajectory. That eliminated an amateur murderer. Then, what about a professional, someone like Moran? It couldn’t be him, though. The last he had heard of Moran was somewhere in the Middle East, about two months ago. If Moran had wanted to get to Sherlock, he likely would have heard from him by now.

Sherlock put John’s corpse back on its back, hand lingering on his shoulder.

“You remind me of how I probably looked at the funeral.” Molly stated. Sherlock looked over to Molly. “I mean, you didn’t cry as much as I did, but you have the same expression. I knew that you weren’t actually dead, I mean, I helped you fake your death. But, seeing that coffin lowered into the ground...” Molly shook her head. “You look the same, though. And, I know that you’re not the type to really talk about feelings, but just know that I’m here, if you need someone to talk to.”

Sherlock nodded his head, a sad smile on his face. “I appreciate your offer, Molly, but as you have said, I am not one to speak about my own emotions. Frankly, part of the reason is because I am expressing so many different emotions that are fighting to be more prominent, that it is hard for me to isolate how I truly feel.” Sherlock paused, glancing down at John’s corpse. “I appreciate you pulling out John for me Molly, but I will be on my way.”

“Right. Um, I guess I’ll see you again.” Molly said, mumbling, “Hopefully.”

Sherlock glanced up at Molly, nodding his head before walking out of the mortuary. Mycroft appeared in the doorway after Sherlock went out of the morgue.

“Well hello, dear brother,” Sherlock said mockingly.

“Hello,” Mycroft replied cooly. “I imagine you can see for yourself that it was not a murder?”

Sherlock frowned. “Yes. Obviously.”

Mycroft nodded. “I am sorry, Sherlock. John was a good man.” He began to walk into the morgue. “Ah, yes, I will be making funeral arrangements by the end of today. Do avoid dying so I can avoid the hassle of arranging your true funeral.”

Sherlock smirked spitefully. “Of course, dear brother.”

~

Soon after going to the mortuary, Sherlock arrived at the doorstep of 221B. He walked up to the door, hand hovering just above the doorknob, and sighed. Slowly, he opened the door, walking into the empty hallway. Sherlock paused in the foyer, closing the door behind him as he heard footsteps walking into where he was. After a few seconds, in walked Mrs. Hudson, who paused a few feet in front of Sherlock, eyes slightly wide.

Mrs. Hudson rubbed her eyes. “I haven’t even had my herbal soother,” Mrs. Hudson mumbled, shaking her head. “I-Is that you, Sherlock?”

A small smile came onto Sherlock’s face. “Yes. Yes, it is me.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson rubbed at one of her eyes, turning away from a moment to clear her mind. “You never saw John in these last couple of months. He was so broken up about losing you, and now you’re here...” Mrs. Hudson paused. “I guess you saw John at St. Bart’s, didn’t you, dear?”

Sherlock nodded sombrely, trying to repress the flood of emotions that came over him.

“I never thought John would do that to himself,” Mrs. Hudson said, tearing up again.

Hesitantly, Sherlock walked over to Mrs. Hudson, wrapping his arms around her. Sherlock felt Mrs. Hudson wrap her arms around Sherlock’s waist before crying into his shoulder for a few moments. Mrs. Hudson sniffed a couple of times, lifting her head away from Sherlock far enough so that she could rub at her eyes a bit.

“I found John, when he shot himself,” Mrs. Hudson stated. “He had lain out a towel, but his body was nowhere near it. There was so much blood...”

Mrs Hudson sniffed a few more times. Sherlock began to lift a hand towards Mrs. Hudson’s head, trying to place her head back in Sherlock’s shoulder, but Mrs. Hudson simply shook her head, lightly batting Sherlock’s hand away.

“By the time I had found him, I knew that there wasn’t much I could do. So, I just called the police.” Mrs. Hudson paused. “Lestrade was the officer that came over with a few paramedics in tow, who said that John was dead on arrival. He was trying to hide it, but I could see all of the shock and pain in his eyes. He didn’t really talk that much, just asked me about what had happened.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “I must say, it was rather terrifying. Thought I had lost both my boys within a few months of each other. At least I’ve got one.” Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly. “You had a reason that you faked your death, right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock flashed a small smile. “Of course.”

_Of course I had a reason. Moriarty had assassins aiming to kill those that mattered most to me. I knew it would be safer if John didn’t join me while taking down Moriarty’s web, and knew that the only way he wouldn’t follow me is if he was convinced that he thought I was dead. I decided to pursue the endeavour of taking down Moriarty’s web in order to make sure that the lives of those that mattered to me most, and even that the lives of others, would not be harmed by those intertwined in his web anymore._

Mrs. Hudson nodded her head. “I’m sure you have a wonderful reason, dear, but if you’d rather not explain, you don’t have to.” She glanced back towards the stairs leading up to 221B. “I know you might not be comfortable with it, but, would like to see the flat?”

Sherlock nodded his head. “I would appreciate that, yes.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, turning to walk up the stairs, Sherlock following a few steps behind her. Mrs. Hudson paused at the door, sighing, and slowly opening the door. Sherlock walked into the flat, immediately looking around the room. The flat was a lot cleaner than when Sherlock lived there, much of the scientific equipment and books out of the room. Sherlock flashed a sad smile upon noticing that the two chairs remained in the exact same position.

While Mrs. Hudson was fairly thorough with the cleaning, Sherlock was able to notice a few stains of blood, likely resulting from a small spray of blood droplets. He tried not to stare at the few stains he noticed, both to avoid worrying Mrs. Hudson, and to avoid picturing how John’s body likely lay on the floor after shooting himself. Sherlock looked up from the rug, looking towards the desk where John’s laptop still sat, smiling when he noticed something familiar.

“You kept my violin,” Sherlock mumbled, zipping open the case and holding the violin facing him, beginning to idly tune it.

“I could never bring myself to get rid of it,” Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock simply smiled, placing the violin back in its case once he had tuned it. “So, John’s gun. Did Lestrade take it?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Said it was evidence.”

“I guess I know where I will be heading next.” Sherlock replied. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, for caring for John when I was not here, and for not prying in regards why I have acted the way I have.”

“Of course, dear, just know that you can talk to me about this, about what you have been doing, whatever you need, alright?”

“I will keep that in mind.” Sherlock walked over to Mrs. Hudson, pecking her cheek. “I won’t be out for more than perhaps an hour or so.”

~

While Sherlock did not necessarily believe in luck, he couldn’t help but think it worked in his favour today. Once arriving at Scotland Yard, he was able to get to Lestrade’s without having to harass any of the officers, along with remaining unrecognized by the lot of them. Sherlock was paused near the door to Lestrade’s office, sighing to himself before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” Lestrade called.

Sherlock slowly opened the door. Lestrade was hunched over his desk, which was littered with various case files, a few empty paper coffee cups on a corner of the desk. Sherlock closed the door behind him.

“Right, what do you need-” Lestrade started to say before looking up. Immediately, his eyes widened. “...Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, it is me.”

“What the hell is going on?” Lestrade asked bluntly. “You were dead, I went to the funeral and saw your coffin lowered into the ground, I had to deal with a grieving John! And what exactly were you doing?”

“I must apologize,” Sherlock replied. “I _had_ to fake my death, it was for the sake of protection.”

“For protecting who, exactly?”

“...The people who matter to me most.”

“...Alright. And you were protecting them from...?”

“I’d rather not go into detail, although I will say that this problem has been solved already.”

Lestrade slowly nodded his head. “Right then. I guess I’ll accept that answer for now.” Lestrade paused. “Do you know how much of an effect your death had on John?”

Sherlock sighed, a look of pain flashing over his face. “Yes, I have seen how John was affected. It’s why I’m here, actually.”

“I don’t know if I can help with that-”

“You can.” Sherlock replied bluntly. “The gun.”

“You mean John’s gun?” Sherlock nodded. Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“I would like to see it.”

“Sherlock, it’s already been stored away-”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock replied, voice slightly elevated. “I would like to see it.”

Lestrade sighed, placing his head in one hand. “Right. Give me a second.”  
“Ideally with the bullet casing, as well.”

Lestrade nodded, walking out of the room. Sherlock went over to Lestrade’s desk once he had left, glancing through a few of the case files. He grabbed a thing of post-its and a pen, scribbling a few notes that would point Lestrade in the right direction and placing them on top of the first page of each file. After a few minutes, Sherlock heard the door open, immediately turning away from the desk, pushing the case files away from him. Lestrade raised an eyebrow, shaking his head before handing Sherlock the evidence bag containing John’s gun and a single bullet casing. Sherlock lifted the end of the bag containing the casing closer to his eyes, confirming that this casing did, in fact, match the bullet hole John had on the back of his head.

“Thank you for this, Lestrade.” Sherlock said, flashing a small smile before going to the door.

“Sherlock, you’re gonna have to give that back to me. Like I said, it’s evidence.”

“Lestrade, please.” Sherlock said, a glint of pain in his eyes. “I, I need something of his. Something to help me remember him, and I choose this.”

Lestrade sighed, squeezing the area between his eyebrows. “Alright. Just, know that I’ll be harassing you if we need it back for whatever reason.”

“I understand.” Sherlock replied. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lestrade paused. “Tell me something. John refused to talk to me about it, and you might not do it either, but I’ll give it a shot anyways: how did you feel about John?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, were you just friends? Or, were you in love with him?”

Sherlock gulped, feeling a faint blush on his face. “...I, I think that there are no words that fully demonstrate how I felt about John. This seemingly ordinary man came into my life, and ended up impacting me more than I thought would be possible. In a way, he completed me.” Sherlock paused. “If I were forced to describe my relationship with John in your terms, I guess that I might say that I...loved him.”

Lestrade nodded. “Figured as much. Shame that you only came to that realization recently, huh?”

Sherlock didn’t reply to that, his face remaining blank.

“Sorry.” Lestrade glanced back at his desk, smirking when he saw the post-its and pen. “You wrote something in my files, didn’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I would let you help out on these cases, but until I get approval from my superior to let outsiders help out, I can’t guarantee you’ll be allowed at the scenes.”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock replied. “As for the notes, simply say that they were from an anonymous source.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Alright.” He paused. “I don’t know who you’ve met recently, and I imagine you’ve heard this God knows how many times, but, I’m here, if you need someone to bitch to about your boredom, or not being able to solve cases, or if you’re missing John.”

Sherlock smirked. “I will keep that in mind.” Sherlock placed the evidence bag in his trench coat pocket. “Goodbye, Lestrade.”

“Bye, Sherlock.”

\---

**One month after John’s death**

 

Sherlock sat on his chair, legs curled beneath him, fiddling with his mobile in one hand. He considered making a call. That man's number was still in his contact list, an unnamed number that hadn't been used since a month before he met John.

Since being sober, he noticed how much clearer his thoughts had been. Granted, his mind was still a never ending rush of deductions and thoughts, but he had grown somewhat used to it. The drugs, while being able to slow down the rush of thoughts, had also been a disadvantage. At first, they did help to slow down his thoughts, more quickly focus on deductions. But, in the end, as his dependency on the drugs became more apparent, his thoughts while high were as unfocused as when he was sober, often even worse. So, after much convincing from his brother and Lestrade, Sherlock decided to try and sober up. The last call Sherlock had made to that man before meeting John was to break off their deal. It still surprised him somewhat how easily he got out of that deal. Granted, that man had never been as bad as the other dealers (there is a reason Sherlock chose him instead of anyone else), but it still was a bit of a surprise.

But, now that John was truly gone, Sherlock couldn’t think of anything else to do. His biggest motivation for faking his death and taking down Moriarty’s web was the hope of being able to see John again, and not have to worry about anyone trying to kill him or John. And now, that motivation was gone. Sherlock couldn’t see much of a reason to go on and continue being sober, to try and take down Moran and his cronies. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair with his free hand, head coming down closer to his knees. His other hand continued to idly fiddle with his mobile as he continued to consider making the call.

Sherlock sighed, sitting up, back straightening more against the back of his chair. He scrolled through his mobile, stopping when he found the unnamed number.

“Ah, Sherlock!” the man exclaimed after the second dial. “I ‘aven’t ‘eard from you in a while!”

“Hello Randall,” Sherlock replied cooly. “I imagine you know why I’m calling.”

“Of course I do!” Randall replied. “The usual for you, then?”

“Perhaps not as much, I have not engaged in drug use in quite a while.”

“Alright then,” Randall said. “I’ll be where I ‘ave been for the past five years!”

“Good to know.” Sherlock replied. “By the way, how’s the wife?”

“Caught ‘er cheating on me.” Randall grumbled. “I ‘ad to break it off.”

“I guess you do not recall me warning about her affair?”

“Of course I do, I just figured that she would break it off soon enough,” Randall said. “I definitely learned not to doubt you when that ‘appened, Mr. ‘olmes.”

Sherlock smirked. “Obviously. I will be there in a few hours.”

“Alright then, Mr. ‘olmes.”

Sherlock hung up, placing the mobile on the table besides him. A wave of emotions came over him. He mostly felt nervous anticipation about falling back into his old habits, and a small part of him was disappointed. He couldn’t help but think of how John would feel about seeing Sherlock once he was under the influence of drugs. He so clearly pictured the various emotions that would be so clearly written on John’s face. The anger and disappointment knitted into his eyebrows, the genuine concern that would be found in his eyes, the slight sadness that would be found in his frown. Sherlock shook his head. John isn’t here anymore. He will never see him again. There is no reason to make someone who wasn’t here anymore be the reason that he pulls out of this. Sherlock got up of his chair, grabbing his trench coat and scarf as he walked out of 221B.

\---

**Two months after John’s death**

 

Sherlock didn’t know how long it took before he started seeing a familiar face that he knew shouldn’t be there. But, somehow, Sherlock was seeing John. In the back of his mind, he knew that it was probably a hallucination caused by his drug-induced stupor, but frankly, he couldn’t care less. It made Sherlock beyond happy to be able to see John.

The first time Sherlock saw John was a few hours after taking a hit of heroin. Normally, when he took a hit, the only thing that would happen is that the storm of thoughts would slow down, allowing him to genuinely relax like normal people would. But, after God knows how long, Sherlock swore he saw someone out of the corner of his eye. He sat up, glancing around the flat. No one. He frowned, beginning to lean back in the chair. Sherlock glanced over to John’s chair, double taking when he saw someone sitting in it.

“Jo-John!” Sherlock stuttered, sitting up in his chair.

“Hello, Sherlock,” John replied with a small smile.

“You-you’re supposed to be dead!”

John shrugged. “Well, I’m here.” He tilted his head, frowning. “You’re high, aren’t you?”

Sherlock nodded his head. “Yes, obviously.”

“I thought you had sobered up.”  
“Yes, well, not all of us can grieve without some sort of comforting substance.”

John shook his head, snickering. “I guess I can’t be one to judge. The limp came back a bit after you died.”

“Oh.” Sherlock mumbled. “John-”

“No, Sherlock, it’s fine. I get it, you had something you could only do on your own, right?”

“Yes, John. I was trying to take down Moriarty’s web. I would have taken you, I WANTED to, but Mycroft encouraged me to go on my own. Said Moriarty viewed you as a bit of a target.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you actually listen to your brother’s orders?”

Sherlock smirked. “Good point. But, all I could think of at the time was taking down Moriarty’s web, just so I could protect you.” He paused. “You weren’t the only target, by the way. Moriarty had assassins on you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. I did think of them, but almost everything I’ve done up until now was for you.”

“Wow.” John shook his head. “Um, I should have known that you had some elaborate reason behind what you did.” He paused. “But God, I’ve missed you.”

“I did, too.” Sherlock replied. “Back when I was traveling across the world, trying to take down Moriarty’s massive, interconnected web, essentially reduced to Mycroft’s little soldier, all I could think of was the day I could come back to you.”

John flashed a smile. “You know, where I am, it’s dark.”  
Sherlock frowned. “Sorry?”

“I can’t see anything, save for myself.” John replied. “I know I need to stay here, though. There’s some reason that I can’t just go to Heaven or Hell, and there’s something that prevents me from wandering around the real world for long.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “And, frankly, I think that reason is you. I’ve been waiting for you, Sherlock.”

“What do you mean you don’t know where you are?” Sherlock asked.

“Please Sherlock, join me. I’ve been waiting for you.” He held up his hand, rotating it as he noticed it become more transparent. “Oh.”

“John,”

“I guess I can’t stay for much longer.” John mumbled. “Goodbye for now, Sherlock. I hope to see you soon.”

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed as John faded to nothing. “John!”

Sherlock heard the clack of heels on the stairs. Mrs. Hudson, most likely. Mrs. Hudson opened the door, glancing around the flat.

“Oh Sherlock, what’s all this yelling about?” She asked. “And, my goodness, this flat’s a mess. I’m not your housekeeper, dear, I can’t always just come and clean up!”

Sherlock was faintly panting, eyes widened. He stood up, going to John’s chair, rummaging around it, futilely trying to find John. He mumbled John’s name under his breath, hoping to find some way to get John back.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson mumbled. She glanced over to the table by Sherlock’s chair, frowning when she saw the used up syringes. “Oh, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tuned out Mrs. Hudson, expanding his search beyond John’s chair. Eventually, he flopped back into his own chair with a sigh, the brief search bearing no results.  
“Ah, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said. “Have you seen John?”

Mrs. Hudson frowned with pity. “Sherlock, you know that John passed away a few weeks ago.”

Sherlock frowned. “Yes, obviously. I knew that. I’ve seen him, though. Somehow, he was talking to me.”

“Well, I haven’t seen him at all.” She paused, glancing at the syringes again. “I’ll let you know if I do, though. And, Sherlock? You were doing so well off these blasted drugs, please tell me you’re not going to go down this path again. Mycroft and Lestrade won’t be happy about this at all.”

Mrs. Hudson walked downstairs, closing the door behind her. Sherlock glanced at the syringes on the table. Perhaps he is taking a bit too much. If he’s hallucinating that John’s here, then he should try and cut back.

Unless... _no. No. Ghosts aren’t real. They’re impossible. There is no proof that souls exist, so how can a ghost exist?_

Sherlock sighed, willing his head to clear. He wanted to get off this high, or at least get back to the initial effects that drugs like this would have on him. Again, he considered quitting the drugs once again, seeing as how they weren’t effectively doing what he wanted them to.

\---

**Three months after John’s death**

 

Ever since Sherlock first saw John, he has been plagued with the sight of him. He’s always the same, dressed in the same oatmeal jumper, hair as grey as when his dead corpse lay on the metal slab in the morgue. The same wrinkles around his eyes, his lips. What made it worse was that he wasn’t able to hold a conversation like he did the first time he saw John. He wasn’t around long enough for Sherlock to try and talk to him. Sometimes he didn’t even see John’s face, just heard the same phrases repeated over and over, “God, I miss you.”, “I’m waiting for you.”, “I want to see you soon.”

Frankly, it drove Sherlock mad. Even when he wasn’t high, he swore he would hear John’s voice, glance John’s jumper out of the corner of his eye. Most of the time, he just wanted the voices to stop, or be able to see John long enough to actually talk to him. But, it always seemed like before he could even conjure up the things he needed to say, John had already faded to nothing.

Sherlock sat on his chair, gaze piercing John’s empty chair. He had this feeling that John would appear soon, if only for a second. His eyes briefly squinted, trying to override the impulse to look away. Finally, he gave in, blinking with a sigh. John was walking around the flat as he would in life, seeming to ignore Sherlock.

Sherlock stood, running to John. “Alright. How do I get to you?” John continued to walk around. “John! I want to see you once more!”

John paused, turning to look at Sherlock. “I imagine you know what to do already.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask something, then paused. “If I kill myself, will I be able to see you again?”

John flashed a smile. “Of course. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Sherlock blinked, unsure of what to say. He paused, deciding the swiftest way to commit suicide, a noose won’t be any good due to the likelihood of it being ineffective, and a knife or similar blade is likely to not be as effective as well. Sherlock paused.

_A gun._

That would be the method most likely to be effective. Sherlock immediately ran upstairs, rummaging through the drawers until... There. A small smile came onto Sherlock’s face. John’s gun, still in the evidence bag with the empty bullet casing.

When Sherlock came back to the living room, he frowned. John had disappeared. He sat back on his chair, staring down at the John’s Browning. Maybe he didn’t want to go through with this. Maybe he should actually try to sober up, continue with his goal of taking down Moriarty’s web. Maybe he should try and find Moran and kill him. Sherlock shook his head. No. There was no point anymore. John was his only motivation, the thing that kept him going. Now that John was dead, frankly, Sherlock wanted to die too, if only for the slight chance that he might be able to see John again.

Sherlock opened the evidence bag, pulling out the Browning. One hand tightened its grip on the handle, the other hand stroking the barrel of the gun. He glanced around the flat, unable to see John.

“If I do this, will I really be able to see you?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock heard by his right ear. He turned, finding no one.

Sherlock gulped, pointing the gun at his face, about a centimetre of the muzzle in his mouth. Slowly, he closed his eyes, finger tightening on the trigger. Before the loud bang, he swore he heard a faint, “I’ll be waiting for you.”

\---

Darkness surrounded Sherlock. The only thing he could see was his hands when he lifted them into his field of vision. He frowned, turning in a small circle. Nothing. Just darkness. A small nagging sensation in the back of his mind told him to walk forward. At first, he ignored this, trying to understand where he was, but soon gave in, starting to walk forward.

At first, Sherlock thought that while he was walking, he still wasn’t actually going anywhere, seeing as how he saw no breaks in the darkness. He sighed, pausing for a moment.

_Why was he doing this? It’s obvious that nothing is happening._

The answer was obvious, though. John.

_John._

Sherlock shook his head, looking more furiously around him. He had to find John. He began to walk again, hoping to see him.

Hesitantly, Sherlock called, “John?”

At first, he heard nothing, then tried calling again.

“Sh-Sherlock?” He heard faintly.

Sherlock flashed a smile. So John is here. He called out John’s name again, hearing his own name called louder than before. He followed the sound of John’s voice, eventually coming to a familiar figure.

“J-John?” Sherlock stuttered, hesitantly touching John’s shoulder.

John spun around, eyes widening. “Sh-Sherlock? I thought you were dead.”

“I’m sorry John,” Sherlock replied. “I had to take down Moriarty’s web. I wanted to protect you, and I knew that the only way I could do that was if I convinced you I was dead. Moriarty had assassins trained on you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and the only way I could protect you and them was if I died.” He paused. “Plus, I knew that if I were dead, you wouldn’t try and find me, and get caught up in another of Moriarty’s schemes.”

John shook his head, placing a hand over his face. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t punch you right now.”

“I think I did,” Sherlock replied. “But, frankly, what I did back then doesn’t matter.” He gulped. “When I heard you committed suicide, I didn’t believe it at first. I thought Mycroft was lying to me, that someone had come to kill you and made it look like a suicide. But, when I saw your body in the morgue, I could tell. It was obvious that you had committed suicide.” Sherlock paused. “After that, I became depressed. I tried to cope with drugs, and soon after that, I began to see you whenever I was in the flat. You claimed that the only way I could see you again was if I killed myself, so I did just that.”

John looked at Sherlock, and smirked. “I did the same thing, you know. The only reason I killed myself was to see you again.”

“Oh.” Sherlock paused, glancing around the darkness. “So, you’ve been here longer. Any idea what this place is for?”  
“Haven’t the faintest clue,” John replied. “All I know is that I stopped walking so I could wait for you.”

“Well, now that I’m here,” Sherlock glanced around the darkness. “Should we try and keep going?”

John nodded. “Yeah,” He paused. “I think I’d like that.”

Sherlock nodded, fiddling with the scarf on his neck. John walked closer to Sherlock, moving his hands to tighten Sherlock’s scarf. He looked up at Sherlock’s face, gulping before turning away.

_What if Sherlock hated him for that? Would he?_

Hesitantly, Sherlock lifted a hand to John’s chin. John stared down at Sherlock’s gloved hand, then towards his face. Their eyes locked before John brought his lips to Sherlock’s. It wasn’t much of a kiss, really. No tongues intertwined, no moans were exhaled. Just a brief touch of lips.

John parted his lips from Sherlock’s, uttering a simple, “God, I’ve missed you.”

“As have I,” Sherlock replied. He glanced down at John’s hand. “Shall we?”

John looked down at Sherlock’s hand, intertwining it with his own. He looked up at Sherlock’s face, seeing a small smile.

“Let’s.”


End file.
